


Sober

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Ficlet, Inspired by Music, M/M, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Short One Shot, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Sherlock Homles has resisted the pull of his drug addiction for years. But John Watson is married and Sherlock knows of only one way to cope with the pain.*****He felt as though he was shaking Death's hand through a thin, weightless glove.“I’ve waited a long time for you,” he says.“Why didn’t you take me sooner?” Sherlock demands through tight teeth, furious at his delayed arrival to Samarra.“You had too much to live for,” Death says as though these words don’t pierce Sherlock's mind with needles of confusion.“Death,” he breathes, though his insides are solid. “I lived for Death."Slowly, Death’s head shakes, his chilled hand removing itself from the gloved-hand of Sherlock. “No,” its solemn voice says and the vision begins to fade away. “You live for-”John.





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

> TW: drug use, mentions of suicidal thoughts. Rated "Mature" for this reason.
> 
> This series is a collection of one-shots where I press "shuffle" on Inevitably-Johnlocked's famous playlist and write a fic based on the first song that pops up.  
> Inspired by: "Sober" by Childish Gambino
> 
> The update schedule for The Johnlock Playlist is changing. Please see the notes at the end for more information. Just a short update today. I sincerely apologize for this, I was swamped this past week!

The calm, drag of marijuana.

The crazed, frantic of cocaine.

The warm, envelopment of heroine.

It was so close to dying, his mind on a third level high. He lived for this, yearned for it to consume his every moment. The world was spinning in pointless circles until Sherlock could experience this next. He didn't always need this level of disconnect, but he did always crave it.

It was floating on water, the nose exclusively remaining above the water while his body went numb under currents. It was rolling over a raging fire to put it out, so close to losing a fight with a flame while attempting to prevent it. It was standing in molasses, sinking in the mass until it cemented his lungs with what it called sweetness.

This was what Sherlock lived for; this experience so close to dying.

That’s what Sherlock lived for, wasn’t it? Death?

His body was marched relentlessly forward, hauling him through abuse, torture, sorrow, and suffering in the name of life. All experiences came and passed without pity and in the end, it wouldn’t matter. This march had an inescapable destination: Samarra.

All roads lead to death. In every sense imaginable, that much is true.

And this, so close to it. He felt as though he was shaking its hand through a thin, weightless glove.

“I’ve waited a long time for you,” he says.

“Why didn’t you take me sooner?” Sherlock demands through tight teeth, furious at his delayed arrival to Samarra.

“You had too much to live for,” Death says as though these words don’t pierce Sherlock's mind with needles of confusion.

“Death,” he breathes, though his insides are solid. “I lived for Death.”

Slowly, Death’s head shakes, his chilled hand removing itself from the gloved-hand of Sherlock. “No,” its solemn voice says and the vision begins to fade away. “You live for-”

 _John_.

The world was a plane of fog, a painting of balsams, surrounding him with green thickets. Each bristle was ringing with clarity, millions of points of interest and his mind couldn’t handle the ferocity with which it was trying to register the information.

He always knew this is how he would die, buried alive with the volume of input his mind threw at him. Dying from a combination of suffocating and being crushed by the volume of those thoughts he couldn’t escape.

The bristles shone until they blinded him. Without his conductor of light, their illumination was unbearable. He begged this was it, the final barrier between his high and death.

John.

729 hours without John. 43,742 seconds without him. Roughly 30 days without the warmth and constancy of his friendship.

It was always John Watson. Always the reason he stopped himself from creating a forced encounter with death. Always the reason he allowed the marching. Always the reason he saw a purpose in the march forward. Always the reason he fought against death.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

Stupid question. He knew precisely where he made the unforgivable turn down this doomed path he was on. He faked his death and allowed John to believe the lie. He threw a live grenade into their relationship and was surprised to find the remains of the explosion. Every moment since was a more painful step down this path of thorns. And this- this moment of blissful dreaming, this moment of lost consciousness, this brushing alongside the veil of life and death- was the end of the road.

The unforgiving cement beneath him left a bruise where his body was frozen in paralysis. The whole of his right side was a pattern of black and blue, exposing his lack of movement where he lay in this place of misery.

He was coming down, now. The worst part passed, the world’s edges returning to their sharp corners. He thought of John, laying comfortable in his bed- his marriage bed. He couldn’t believe the loss of such a profound love. He couldn’t believe that the love that sustained his life was now over- had never begun.

With the drugs running through him with less intensity, the pain was biting. He flinched from it.

Love is a dangerous disadvantage. He couldn’t believe he got sucked in, his heart so thoroughly full of love. He needed to forget, needed to get high. He needed to get higher and higher until it consumed him and the pain was tolerable.

Caring is not an advantage and now he will never be sober.

“Hello, mate.”

In this half-high, he swore he heard John’s voice. It echoed around him, ricocheting around his mind as he marvelled at his mind’s ability to craft his desires into nearly-real hallucinations.

John’s soft, soothing voice urging him to sit up. He didn’t understand. Sherlock didn’t need to get up, he needed to sink deeper into this delusion until it swallowed him whole.

“Doctor Watson?” floated a voice that was unfamiliar. “Where am I?” It shook the world around him, the dazed illusion cracking into shards around him. Why was this coarse, grating voice barging through his crafted dream?

Then the angelic voice once more. But it didn’t speak soothing words, no declaration of love, not one kindness granted. “The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me,” it demanded, and Sherlock was spiralling.

“Have you come for me?” came the bleary voice that was certainly not borne of his mind. It was real, an authentic sound breaking through his senses to become perception of the scene around him.

“How many people d’you think I know here?”

John. Here. John. Not an illusion. John.

It was hauling through the airless vacuum of space. It was treading from the deepest depth of an unexplored ocean. It was strength he never knew he had- the strength John Watson inspired in him. Sherlock needed to move, his mind clicking into activity, changing gears to embrace reality when he’d fought against it for so long.

A strange laugh. His floating voice was asking another if they were alright.

He propped himself up on his elbow, his body contoured to look behind him. His eyes struggled to pull the source of the melodious voice into focus.

John.

“Ah, hello John. Didn’t expect to see you here” he said with all the calm he could muster. He was barely aware of his words, John’s face, or anything else in the world. He was only aware of his drug-addled mind as it took in the sight of John and his heart as it beat with the pain of knife wound. “Did you come for me too?”

**Author's Note:**

> To protect my pride, I must announce that the inconsistent verbiage in this work is intentional. Sherlock is losing it, unable to grasp or understand time, experience, or thought.
> 
> Unfortunately, I will be unable to continue updating this series every Monday. It's the Holiday season, I work three jobs, _and_ I have two large fics in the works that I need to focus on in my spare time (not to mention my original work). However, I will certainly be continuing this series, it's just going to take a backseat for now. I am so sorry! If you wish to stay up-to-date with this series, you may do so by clicking where it says "Part 4 of The Johnlock Playlist" and pressing "Subscribe" on the top of _that_ page. Pressing the "Subscribe" button on this page will not bring you news of new additions. There will be more if you can be patient! :)
> 
> If you're new to The Johnlock Playlist, you can find it on Tumblr:  
> Inevitably-Johnlocked (http://inevitably-johnlocked.tumblr.com/johnlockplaylist)  
> Dialogue from His Last Vow retrieved from: https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html
> 
> If you fancy it, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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